Becoming Extraordinary
by i.dream.of.words
Summary: Tom Riddle's lifelong goal was to defy the mundane and become the perfection that others only dare to dream about: to become extraordinary. And nothing would stand in his way. Rating is for violence, but is mainly a precaution.
1. Impressions

**Hey, all! Katie here, with my first story on . Beta-ing credit goes to LucillaJoanna and Stubbornlyappeared (both authors on Mugglenet FanFiction). So let's get on with the story, eh?**

* * *

"First years! First years, over here!"

Tom Marvolo Riddle descended the steps of the crimson Hogwarts Express and trooped with his fellow classmates over to the man who was calling for them.

"My name's Ogg," the man said through a mouth of crooked, yellowing teeth, "and I'm the groundskeeper at Hogwarts. Come on then, got to get you lot down to the boats." Ogg started to walk at a rather brisk pace for a man of his size—he appeared to be roughly six feet tall.

The group of students followed Ogg down a steep, narrow path surrounded by massive trees. "You'll get your very first view of your new home in a moment," Ogg said dully.

"Some home," sneered a black-haired boy. "School isn't _home_; it's more like a prison."

At this remark, the rest of the group snickered into their palms. The boy, apparently pleased with himself, smiled smugly. Ogg seemed to be feigning deafness.

Just as Tom's mouth was curling up into a smirk, it dropped open. He had just gotten his first look at Hogwarts. A huge stone structure, its many towers and turrets were reflected in a seemingly endless black lake, along with stars numbering in the hundreds of millions. Tom allowed himself to be impressed with the imposing castle—a rare indulgence on his part that was carefully hidden from the other first years.

There were several boats perched on the edge of the lake. Instinctively, everyone piled into them, including Tom. Much to his chagrin, he was in a boat with two girls who kept whispering to each other and giggling. He scowled slightly.

Once Ogg was satisfied that he hadn't left anyone behind, he pointed his wand and the boats began to move slowly forward. Tom found himself staring at the magnificent castle as the boats moved slowly across the smooth black lake, creating no ripples as they journeyed forward.

"Duck!" yelled Ogg, and the students obliged. They sailed under a wall of ivy and into a cave that appeared to be directly underneath the school.

"Out!" Ogg shouted the moment the boats had stopped. The students climbed out of the boats and traipsed behind Ogg onto the school's wide, grassy lawn.

"In a moment you will all be Sorted into Houses," said Professor Dumbledore seriously, though his blue eyes were flashing with what Tom imagined to be excitement at the prospect of new minds ready for moulding. "As I am the Head of Gryffindor House, I may be slightly biased," he added with a wink, "but Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin all have their own noble histories, and all have produced great witches and wizards."

Tom watched him look around at every student in turn with those piercing blue eyes. Blue eyes that lingered on him a second longer than necessary.

"If you would please follow me."

The nervous students formed a line and followed the Professor into the Great Hall. If Tom had thought the exterior view of the castle magnificent, the Great Hall was all that and more.

The ceiling didn't look like a ceiling—in fact, at first Tom thought there wasn't one. It perfectly mirrored the starry sky outside, giving the illusion that the Hall was open to the heavens. High above what Tom thought to be the four House tables and the staff table, candles floated in thin air. Their shadowy, flickering light illuminated the Hall.

The first years followed Dumbledore and stood in front of the staff table. Dumbledore conjured a stool and placed an aged wizard's hat on top of it. The entire Hall fell silent in anticipation, but what were they anticipating? There had been nothing about this in any of Tom's books, and he absolutely hated not knowing what was going on.

Suddenly, the brim of the hat opened and—much to Tom's quickly masked surprise—it began to sing:

_"To new students, welcome!  
Soon you'll be with the rest  
But not before you try me on  
And put me to the test. _

You see, I am the Sorting Hat  
You probably know the score:  
I Sort you into Houses  
Of which there are four.

Ravenclaw, where intelligence  
Is the thing that you'll find most;  
The eagle is their symbol  
To wit and learning they toast.

Hufflepuff, the badgers  
Are always tried and true;  
Loyalty can be found here  
And plenty of friends, too.

Gryffindor, where bravery  
Is valued above all;  
The mighty lion's roar  
Is their daring battle call.

And Slytherin, the serpent  
For the cunning and the sly;  
Better watch, for fangs are poison  
If it's a snake you're bitten by.

Now don't be scared, step right up!  
For whatever the case,  
You just have to try me on  
And I'll put you in your place!"

Thunderous applause followed the Sorting Hat's song, followed by Professor Dumbledore shouting out the first student's name. "Abbott, Anne" was made a Hufflepuff after a minute of near silence, and she beamed as she made her way to the table on the right.

The group of first years slowly lessened in number as they were Sorted until Tom's name was finally called. He walked up to the stool with feigned confidence and placed the hat on his head. He made sure to keep his face blank and devoid of emotion; never once did he show the nervous anxiety he was really feeling.

"Oh, my," said a small voice in his ear. It almost made Tom jump out of his skin. Luckily, he caught himself before reacting so violently. "Cunning, power, and a thirst for greatness . . . there's only one House for you. SLYTHERIN!" It shouted the last word to the entire Hall. Tom put the hat back on the stool and, heart racing, took his place at the Slytherin table.

At this point he happened to glance at Dumbledore, who was calling out the last name on the list ("Zabini, Cornelius"). The old wizard looked back at Tom with a wary expression in those piercing blue eyes. Tom mentally shook himself as he turned back to the table.

The golden plates filled with food before his eyes. "My name's Orion Black," said the black-haired boy from earlier, who was sitting on his left. "And you are?"

"Tom Riddle," replied Tom somewhat sharply. He trusted no one, and wasn't exactly eager to make friends. The concept of a 'friend' was completely foreign to him, and he found it pointless.

Orion seemed to be appraising Tom as he inspected him head-to-toe in a not very subtle fashion. Tom raised an eyebrow at this, an action that was not missed by Orion. He gave Tom a small nod of approval.

The blond sixth year on Tom's right turned to him. "You know," he said in a drawling voice with an air of arrogance, "I've never heard the name 'Riddle' before. What's your blood?"

Tom paused for a moment, weighing his options quickly. He knew from reading about Salazar Slytherin in his History of Magic textbook that the wizard—and his House—thought that those of 'pure' wizarding blood were better than those of Muggle descent. If he bluffed and said he was a pureblood to fit Slytherin standards, he would definitely get caught in the lie later. But if he said he was an orphan, the other Slytherins would likely shun him. He decided that being shunned was more easily fixable than being caught.

"I don't know," he replied coolly, staring into the sixth year's grey eyes. "And, really, it's none of your concern."

Several older students gave him patronising looks, while the first years looked at him with a mixture of awe and fear.

"Well, if you don't know, then why are you _here_? And for that matter, how does one go about not knowing? Who in your family was magical?"

"I don't know because I'm an orphan," said Tom flatly, wishing that the conversation would end.

"An _orphan_?" the sixth year repeated, as if he had never heard of such a thing. "You belong somewhere else, then. Why don't you just get back on the train and go to your orphanage? We don't need _your kind_ in this House."

"I have no desire to ever return to that orphanage again. And we don't need _your kind_ in this House either."

The sixth year laughed shortly. "_My_ kind?"

"Exactly. This House really doesn't need such a slimy git."

The older boy's ears turned red, and he flushed visibly as the surrounding students snorted into their dinners.

"You're going to regret insulting me," Tom said so softly only he and the sixth year heard it. Tom's voice was silky smooth, and he could sense the sixth year's discomfort as he visibly drew back from Tom.

"We'll see," the older boy said quietly, trying to sound braver than he felt.

"Yes," Tom replied unflinchingly, looking him in the eye. "We certainly will."

Later that night, Tom carefully pulled back the hangings around his bed and crept out of the dormitory. He quietly stole to the sixth year dormitory, and, wand aloft, entered. Finding the sixth year from earlier that night, he read the neatly engraved name on his trunk: 'Abraxas Malfoy'. He silently moved to the boy's nightstand and took his wand. With little effort, he snapped the wand in half, placed it on the nightstand, and crept back to his bed.

Tom's last thought before drifting into slumber was that they would see. He hummed to himself softly; his most recent deed was already dismissed.

They would all see, in time, how different he was from the others. How special he was.

* * *

**Sorry; I'm used to writing long chapters. o I'm also a bit of a slow updater, but in the rare chance that anyone actually reads/likes this, I'll try to speed it up a bit. Oh, and I almost forgot--there's a bit of a prequel to this where Tom's in the orphanage. It's older, but still half-decent. If anyone wants me to post it, tell me and I will. **


	2. Last of the Line

The moonlight shone through a window, illuminating the corridor with a soft white light. Normally, Tom would have strode boldly into this light, not caring if his shadow splintered it into a million fragments. However, tonight he made it a priority to avoid the moonlight that could betray his being out of bed after hours. The last thing he wanted was for Dumbledore to watch him any closer, especially if he found the Chamber.

_The Chamber!_ The mere thought of finding his ancestor's long-lost Chamber of Secrets excited him and quickened his already brisk pace, making him nearly crash into a suit of armour: luckily, he managed to side-step it.

Rather than slowing his pace, the close call made the opposite effect. He practically sprinted from shadow to shadow until he reached his destination. Tom confidently strode into the girls' bathroom, recalling the blueprints he had memorised of Hogwarts ("borrowed" from the Restricted Section, naturally). They had shown a mysterious hollow tap in the girls' bathroom, and Tom had convinced himself that the Chamber lay below.

He walked slowly, almost reverently, to the tap and examined every inch with cold, calculating eyes. Nothing was strange about the basin, nor was anything even slightly amiss about the rest of the sink. Tom grasped the faucet with a long-fingered hand and turned it slowly: not a single drop of water came out.

Frowning, he turned his attention to a second sink. He examined this one in the same manner as before, only to duly note that the two sinks were unmistakably identical. He turned the handle anyway, and immediately a soft flow of water greeted him.

His dark eyebrows arched together in confusion. The two sinks were exactly the same, and yet only one was in working order? In a school of magic, a sink was broken? No, something surely was different about the first sink; he could _feel_ it, even if he couldn't see it.

Drawing his wand, Tom pondered several ways to open the Chamber. He knew that no charms, jinxes, hexes, or curses would do, as the entranceway would obviously be able to resist any magical means of forced entry. No, it had to be something that wasn't destructive in the least. Curiously, he moved his wand over the tap in a slow, deliberate motion, muttering to himself all the while. When he was finished, a small carving of a snake remained on the side of the faucet.

Immediately after the snake was carved, the faucet, Tom was sure, glowed green. But before he could take a better look, it had returned to its normal silver colour. _A trick of the light; nothing more,_ he told himself sternly, although he could not completely conceal his excitement.

In front of him was the entrance to the famed, legendary Chamber of Secrets—he was sure of it. It had taken almost his entire fifth year to locate the entryway, but now, standing in front of the tap newly engraved with a small snake, he knew he had found it.

Of course, it had been difficult. The research had taken several sleepless nights and more hours than he could count, not to mention sneaking around the castle—even with his Prefect status—had aroused some suspicion, but that was easily brushed aside with a silky reply, a lie that came so easily to his lips. And no one dared question Tom Riddle's honesty. . . .

He smirked at the thought as he stepped away from the tap and hissed _"Open,"_ in Parseltongue. Immediately, the sink in front of him glowed with a blindingly bright light and began to spin round and round, until it sank down into the floor and exposed a long pipe. Lowering himself into the pipe, Tom smirked widely.

Tom found himself sliding down the pipe at a fast rate, much faster than he had anticipated. He reflexively kept his expression blank and bored, concealing the pride he felt. He had done it: he had found the Chamber of Secrets, and soon, he would find the legendary monster and unleash its power on the school. . . . He was pondering over possible plans to eradicate the resident Mudblood population when the slide levelled out unexpectedly, spitting him out like a human shot-put. He rocketed out of the slide and, failing to get his footing on slippery animal bones, rolled over, doing a twisted sort of somersault that left him looking rather disorderly.

Scowling, he got up and quickly Scourgified his robes. Reaching into his pocket, Tom drew out his wand and lit it non-verbally, taking in his surroundings. He was in a small, cave-like chamber with dark, slimy walls; thousands of bones from small mammals (mostly rats, it seemed) littered the floor. He moved forward quietly, keeping his wand aloft.

After several dark bends in the tunnel, Tom found himself standing before a door covered with stone serpents. Their emerald eyes glittered menacingly in the wand-light, as if challenging him to attempt to pass. He took no heed of this, and instinctively hissed _"Open,"_ in Parseltongue.

Immediately, the doors began to part. A deafeningly loud grating ensued—from lack of use, Tom suspected. After all, the last person in this Chamber had been Slytherin himself. For a split second, Tom feared that the sound might have woken the whole castle. However, he reminded himself that he was far underground, farther even than the dungeons. His worrying immediately ceased, only to be replaced by anticipation.

Tom stood in a grand, high-ceilinged chamber. Massive stone pillars carved with snakes were on either side of him. And, in the very centre of the back wall, a giant statue of Salazar Slytherin himself stood tall and resolute. Tom walked forward slowly, his shoes making loud smacking sounds on the wet floor. The snakes' eyes seemed to follow him as he moved, and Slytherin almost seemed to be staring him down. Tom was unnerved for only a moment before he simply ignored the intricate carvings and walked on. The pathway to Slytherin seemed to take an eternity to walk, but finally he was at the statue's enormous feet.

Craning his neck, Tom looked into the face (which somehow resembled a monkey) of his ancestor. _"Release me,"_ hissed the statue of Slytherin without moving its mouth. Tom bemusedly entertained the thought of the giant statue being the monster: but no, that didn't seem right. Furrowing his brow and frowning, he saw that Slytherin's mouth was hinged. The monster was inside of the great statue, just waiting for its master's command.

And Tom wasn't lacking in commands.

***

_"Rise, oh mighty Serpent of Slytherin,"_ Tom hissed rather impatiently. He had been attempting to get his wording right for almost an hour now, with no success. And now, Tom, who had never been a patient person, was getting extremely frustrated—the key to power was so close he could see it, could practically _taste_ it, and yet in a twist of bitter irony it was just out of his reach.

He set his jaw in anger and felt one hand close tightly around his wand. If only he could curse the mouth open! But no, that would destroy the Chamber, and that would bring him no closer to ridding the school of its filth. Tom's eyes blazed as he said loudly, _"Show me your secrets, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four."_ To his utter astonishment and delight, the great mouth of Slytherin began to open . . . it opened a bit more . . . just a little farther now—

And then, without warning, it closed again with a mighty _boom._

Tom almost bellowed in rage, but he regained control just in time. After all, he had gotten something right, for the great mouth of Slytherin had almost completely opened. He pondered this for a few more minutes, and, choosing his words carefully, slowly hissed, _"Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four."_

The mouth opened once again, but this time, it did not close. A massive serpent slid from it, the foot-long fangs bared, the tongue flitting out of its mouth to taste the air, the great yellow eyes staring at the wall, for it could not kill the one who had released it.

"A basilisk," Tom said quietly, more to himself than to the snake. So this was Salazar Slytherin's monster—a basilisk, the perfect predator.

_"You called, Master?"_ the serpent hissed as it bowed its huge head.

Tom smiled in spite of himself. How satisfying it was. To finally have the tool to quench his thirst for blood, to inspire fear and terror in the hearts of all unworthy in the wizarding world and to finally toss aside the plain title of Tom Riddle and become the Heir of Slytherin.

***

The next night, Tom returned to the girls' bathroom, ready to begin the school's much-needed purification. _"Open,"_ he hissed. _"Come."_ The last command had been to the basilisk—he needed it to come to him, or else his plan would not work. After all, directing the snake from the Chamber when it was floors above him made about as much sense as poking oneself in the eye with one's own wand. No, it would be much easier to command his servant from the girls' bathroom.

_His servant._ How he savoured those words. How Tom loved to think of something else obeying his every command, doing his dirty work. The power felt incomprehensibly good—and he wanted more of it.

_"You called, Master?"_ came the obedient hiss of the basilisk.

_"Yes,"_ Tom replied conversationally. _"It is time to begin putting my plan into action._

"_You can smell Mudbloods, can you not?"_ he asked.

"_Yes,"_ answered the basilisk, nodding its huge, scaly head in assent.

"_Good. Find one and kill them. Go now."_ Tom smirked slightly as the basilisk nodded its head a final time and slithered back into the depths of the Chamber.

Soon, the school would be in disarray and all would fear the wrath of Slytherin's heir— him. His smirk broadened until his handsome features were warped and distorted beyond recognition.

***

Weeks passed, and eight Muggleborns were Petrified by the basilisk's stare. Tom kept up his usual façade of the perfect student, though internally he was furious. The Petrified students had all of Hogwarts terrified and on alert, but not one Mudblood had been killed yet. Luckily, no-one seemed to suspect him of being the heir, which meant that he still had time to kill.

He returned to the bathroom three nights after the most recent attack (Angelina something-starting-with-a-'g', he registered dimly) to set the basilisk on another Muggleborn student.

"_Open,"_ he hissed. _"Come."_

Tom could hear the basilisk slithering up through the large pipe and purposely looked to his right to avoid the creature's deadly stare.

"_You called, master?"_ asked the great serpent.

Tom opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything more, a stall door had opened the tiniest bit, and a girl stepped out. Behind her thick glasses, her eyes were puffy and red from crying.

She was too absorbed in her own sniffling to look up immediately, so she didn't see Tom. Just as she lifted her head slightly, Tom hissed _"Kill her."_ The basilisk turned its magnificent head and looked her straight in the eyes.

For a moment, a brief, fear-filled moment, Tom was afraid it hadn't worked. The girl had remained standing there, still as stone. But then she had fallen onto her face, breaking those thick glasses, and Tom knew that she was dead.

He ordered the basilisk to retreat to the Chamber once more. Who knew how long it would be before they found the body? Who knew how long before they discovered the message he painted outside the bathroom? And who knew how long before they discovered that Tom Riddle, Prefect, perfect student, was the Heir of Slytherin?

Tom didn't wait to find out. He strode from the bathroom confidently, leaving the girl's body face-down.

Now all he needed was a cover.

***

It had been easy enough, framing the oaf Hagrid, Tom mused to himself as he walked to the Great Hall for dinner. While Tom was so perfect, so charming, and so utterly honourable, Hagrid was unkempt, uncouth, and ignorant.

Why Dumbledore was letting that idiot stay as a gamekeeper, Tom couldn't figure out, not that he particularly cared. All that mattered to him was that he had done the unthinkable, the unimaginable (at least to his professors).

Tom Riddle had gotten away with murder.


	3. What It's Like To Kill

**A/N: And so ends this story. This is, by far, my favorite chapter. In my opinion, it's the only one worth reading, really.**

--

"I'm going out," sixteen-year old Tom Marvolo Riddle said to Mrs. Cole. "I'll be back by the end of the day."

She nodded absentmindedly, and for a brief moment considered telling him to be careful, out of habit. But nonchalance snatched the words from her mouth, and she found herself uncaringly peering into her open desk drawer, searching for a bit of gin. If the boy didn't return, so much the better.

Completely missing out on Mrs. Cole's jumbled thoughts, Tom strode from the orphanage with a determined, focused look about his handsome features. Today's trip wasn't simply a way to get out of the orphanage, hellhole that it may be; no, today, Tom had a plan. And that plan was to seek the revenge he had been denied for so long: revenge on his no-good family.

***

Tom was seething. Power and anger coursed through his blood—_his filthy, unworthy father's blood_—in time with his pounding heart. Every step was fuelled by pure, blind rage. Tom's jaw was clenched, distorting his chiselled features into inhuman, nearly unrecognizable ones. And as he stalked through the night, black robes billowing in a largely impressive manner, his mind was blazing with a single thought: _Revenge_.

His feet carried him to the large house as though they had a will and purpose of their own, something not entirely unfathomable, as all of Tom seemed to be working separately. His hands desired to close around a throat and squeeze until there was no breath left; his heart beat impossibly fast and loud with the notion of silencing another's heartbeat for eternity; his eyes shone crimson with the thought of blood, filthy Muggle blood, on his porcelain hands; his mind desired a more subtle death, a simple curse would do.

He found his grandparents quickly—they had been standing in the entrance hall, talking about the latest society scandal, as per usual—and he killed them easily, a few words spent on a few worthless people.

Entering the parlour, he saw his father drowsing in a comfortable armchair. His loathing for the man only increased when he noticed how similar they were in appearance. The high cheekbones, ebony hair, pale skin, and firmly-set jaw were all apparent in both of the men.

"Hello, father," came Tom's quiet voice: smooth as silk, yet with the distinct air of a deadly viper, poised to strike and kill.

Tom Riddle senior's half-empty wineglass fell from his hand as he started, staining the polished hardwood floors a deep crimson. "What do you mean by it, boy? I have no son," he replied warily, making eye contact with his only child.

His eyes, Tom then decided, were one thing he didn't share with his father. His father's eyes were the same deep brown colour, but they radiated ignorance and wealth, whereas Tom's blazed with cold, calculating fury.

"But you do have a son," said Tom junior, as casually as if he had been invited over for tea. "Foolish man, how could you not remember? You left your son at a run-down orphanage, without a care in the world if he lived or died—"

"Go! Leave my house this instant!" Tom senior yelled in desperation as he jumped out of the chair and backed away from what was unmistakeably his son, who looked quite mad at the moment.

"Never interrupt me," hissed Tom, raising the wand that wasn't his menacingly. His father felt a sudden urge to beg forgiveness, to drop to his knees and plead for mercy at the hands of his son, but he caught himself. A man of his upbringing _never_ begged, even if his deranged son _was_ pointing a stick in his face.

"Where are my parents?" Tom senior asked slowly. Somehow, he knew the answer before Tom's lips even parted.

"Dead," said Tom nonchalantly, watching his father's face whiten as he grabbed onto the armchair for support; he absolutely refused to faint. "Don't worry; you'll be with them soon.

"But before you join them, let's see just how pathetic you truly are, shall we? _Crucio!"_

The older man fell on the floor, writhing and screaming in pain. "Please—please—take money, take the house, I'll even get you the deed myself, just stop, please stop," he begged as his entire body was put through more pain than he could have even imagined possible—which wasn't much, seeing as the most pain he had ever experienced was tripping over a velvet ottoman onto a padded Oriental rug.

"I think not," said Tom junior quietly, his eyes unmistakeably scarlet. "_Crucio_!"

Tom senior was in excruciating agony, his muscles were on fire, his head was surely going to split open, every bone in his body was being sawed in half, his very blood was boiling in his veins; he only wanted to die, to die and be free of this pain, please let him die, he couldn't take any more. . . .

And then, in response to his sobs and broken pleas, the curse was suddenly lifted. "Pitiful," spat the younger man in a voice riddled with loathing. He glared at his sobbing father, who was laying at his feet in a worthless heap. _As it should be,_ he thought savagely. "You disgust me." Then the curse was back upon him again, and he was in pain; mortal, agonizing pain. . . .

Tom senior could hear his screams ring and echo through the empty house, and yet he was not aware that he was screaming. His thoughts oddly became detached from the agonising pain, and they became quite clear: He was going to be murdered by his son and that funny wooden stick.

"Please," he gasped through screams and spasms of pain, "please, I'm your father! Stop!"

The younger Tom Riddle laughed a high, cold laugh that didn't suit him. "Father? _I have no father_," he said, his voice dripping with malice.

"Yes, you do!" Tom senior cried in desperation as he felt his strength begin to leave him. "You have my name, for mercy's sake!"

"I share that common name no longer, and Lord Voldemort knows nothing of mercy." Tom smirked as he watched his father convulse and scream with pain. As much as he relished in his father's screams, he knew that this could not last. And so, for the third time that night, he spoke two little words that would end thousands of meaningless lives: "_Avada Kedavra_!"

A bright green light illuminated the two handsome faces; one masked with permanent terror, and the other unmasked and displaying the monster beneath the perfection. A rushing wind seemed to sweep through the house, taking Tom Riddle senior with it.

Tom junior cast one last dirty look at his broken father, turned on his heel, and set off for the Gaunt hovel to finish what he had begun.

Reaching the Gaunt residence (if one could call it that), Tom entered and set his uncle's wand next to its unconscious owner. He then took his own wand and muttered under his breath while waving it in a complicated pattern over Morfin's head, implanting a memory, a memory of murder and hatred, a memory of genius and madness.

He looked down at Morfin, who would be in Azkaban the moment the bodies were discovered. For the first time, he noticed the ring the man wore. Tom picked it up and examined it. The ring was crudely made of gold, with a large black stone in the centre that bore some an unfamiliar coat of arms. He always did like trophies. . . .

***

Tom reached the orphanage just as Mrs. Cole's clock ticked to midnight. She nearly reprimanded him for coming back so late, but a single look into his eyes shut her mouth and opened the third—or was it fourth?—bottle of the day. It must have been a trick of the light, for the light in the orphanage was poor at best, but she could have sworn that Tom's eyes were red.

--

**Well, that's all. Anyone up for a review? Please? I don't have any yet for this story... Even a frowny face would make my day at this point. Yes, I'm that pathetic.**


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